Childhood's end
by unnafraher
Summary: A set of drabbles leading up to Hikaru's 20th birthday. -Fairly blatantly Akira/Hikaru-


With the closing of summer comes colder winds and shorter days. Clothing in autumn colours emerge from closets along with heavier and heavier coats, and students who are still in school're finally getting along into the semester. Fewer hours of daylight does not mean less work for anyone, however. The Go world enters autumn like the rest of the world, and Hikaru's just as busy as ever.

He's on his own this evening, replaying a game to study. If he doesn't have a match today, he has one tomorrow, or the next day, there're always study sessions to go to, his games with Akira besides. Things to fill his calendar as the days steadily progress, into weeks, into months crossed out one by one on the cheap, plain calendar he keeps in the bedroom of his apartment.

_Pachi, pachi._ He's playing this game out for himself by memory, pausing every so often to see the effect of a move and its consequences on the direction of the game. He's always been gifted at reading deeply into the future. And when he knows the future, he is good at deeply reading the past. He's found that he can reconstruct the thoughts of each player at the time of any move, penetrating into vague and shady realms long since abandoned.

He's stopped now in his replaying, and thinks, _this is a talent Sai would've liked and praised me for. _

And then he plays the next moves he remembers.

Hikaru's turned 19 recently, going on 20 next year. He's looking forward to seeing the new pros this coming year.

But before that will come December.

…

The cold comes, and the snow comes, and the nights are nearing the height of their length. On his way home some nights Hikaru pretends that he can navigate by the North Star, one of the only stars he can see through the Tokyo lights despite the delicious crispness and harsh clarity of these winter nights. If anything, the raw cold on bits of his skin—face, the back of a hand not in a pocket, ears—makes him acutely aware of _feeling_. His breath frozen before his eyes makes it clear how alive he really is.

The few stars he can see makes the sky look like the beginning of what could be a very interesting game of Go.

…

The twilight is well advanced by the time Hikaru makes it out of the Go Institute on 13th December. He has to cut short on discussion of this last game, and by the time he's out the door and around the corner he can barely remember what excuse he had used on Waya. Something about having to get a cake for his mother?

It's half true, at least.

Hikaru stops by a bakery that claims to be "Authentic European," though Hikaru knows the support for this claim's minimal at best. There's a Van Gogh on the wall—his vivid, infamous sunflowers—and "colour" on the menus's spelt in the right way, but, well. Who is he to judge on this place's Europeanism? Having opted out of high school, his English and world history knowledge beyond some Dutch merchants with funny names isn't the most extensive.

But he does know that this bakery is good. Good quality, good taste, good staff.

The worker on duty, a niece of the owner, smiles in a dazzlingly, infinitely welcoming way. "How may I help you today?" she asks a very helpful way.

"Just give me a second to look around. Thank you. I'll let ya know when I need your help!"

He looks over a panoply of European delicacies: Danishes, tarts, éclairs, and amazingly sugary cakes which are either short or tall, candied fruit, and more. He hovers over the glass, over the cake section.

"That one, please," he says, smiling. "The one left of that one." He picks out a cake with minimal decorations. On it is a single branch with a smattering of pink sakura blossoms, and some of the blossoms have blown to other parts of the cake's surface. It's strangely out of season in a way, but then this isn't a "Japanese bakery."

And now the tricky part.

"You see it's for someone's birthday. Could you write his name on it?"

The worker nods.

"What name?"

"Well, if you could, could you write it in English?"

…

After the bakery, Hikaru heads straight to Akira's apartment. It's in a nice complex, in a nice area. The pristine hallway matches the whiteness and simplicity of the box in his hands, Hikaru thinks, as he goes up the stairs and swings into Akira's hallway.

The apartment isn't far from the stairwell, and in a few moments Hikaru is shifting the box into one arm to knock with one hand. Just to be sure he's heard, though, he says to the door, "It's me!"

And in another moment, here's Akira opening his door, giving Hikaru a disapproving look, infinitely clear on how rude he thinks it is to practically shout something like that in what is a perfectly peaceful, practically public hallway.

"Shindou."

Smiling, Hikaru easily makes his way past Akira and flings off his shoes as Akira closes the door. Then, sensing Akira behind him, he turns around and places the box into Akira's hands. Met with a raised brow which asks very eloquently _what is this_, Hikaru laughs, reaches for Akira's elbow, and guides the other boy into his own front room.

"Happy early birthday, Touya."

And now Akira is smiling, too.

"It's not until tomorrow, you know."

"That's why I said early, duh!" Hikaru says, letting go of Akira's elbow. He takes a few steps stopping around to the boy's other side. He's obviously impatient. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"It's a present," Hikaru says.

"It is," Akira says, his smile receding a bit. Not fading, he's just gotten over initial excitement over one of his rival's unannounced visits. "For me."

"Yeap. It's a present, and you know what you're supposed to do with'em? Open them."

And now Akira is smiling again, though less than before. He makes his way to his kitchen, sets the box down, looks up at his window that is covered in tiny rivulets where snow has hit the glass and melted. "In a few hours, then," Akira says, turning to face Hikaru. He does not have to look up or down to address Hikaru evenly now, and hasn't for a while because Hikaru caught up to him in height a while ago. When exactly he couldn't say—it's the same as their go. "You're not supposed to open them until your birthday, Shindou."

Hikaru looks blankly at Akira for a moment. Thinking, maybe? He shrugs. And then after a moment of looking annoyed, he ends his little emotional bout by placing a hand on Akira's shoulder.

"Let's play a game. If I win, you open the damned thing before it spoils."

"And if I win?" Akira asks.

"Then you have it your way, and the damn thing spoils, idiot," Hikaru says, sounding a little miffed but not enough so to put himself in a bad mood. In fact he looks almost amused as he takes a step back. "Or maybe one request. We'll see."

"A request?"

"Anything that's within reason, Touya."

At this, Akira laughs dryly. "I'll request that when you crash my birthday party with my parents—don't look like that, I know you—you'll refrain from saying anything idiotic or brash."

And Hikaru says, "Oi—you punk!"

Avoiding a punch to his arm, Akira heads towards his goban first, followed very closely by a fuming Hikaru trying to get in a punch, or a word or two.


End file.
